


Cowboys Don't Write Poetry

by NyxTheMagicDragon



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bones pining, Crack, Fluff, M/M, Rambling, Teasing, Vulcan ears, and being Southern, author murders you with italics, but v sweet in my hugely biased opinion, drunken dumbassery, gooey heart, heated, momentary angst, ridiculously, spones - Freeform, very brief I don't have the heart, you know what I'm talkin' about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22085911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxTheMagicDragon/pseuds/NyxTheMagicDragon
Summary: Bones is all soft on the inside and denies he might be a little bit pining after a certain green-blooded nuisance. Or a lot. Maybe a lot not pining. But Spock can't seem to take a hint about leaving the grumpy, tipsy doctor alone, and sticks around while McCoy badly navigates the ship, staying with him till they finally reach Leonard's quarters.(Friendly! Spones, I just love when they get on as friends first. Lots of teasing, bit of banter, slightly drunken, misguided escapades through the ship. Brief moment of aaangst, but pretty quickly fixed, cause I'm soft. Then it's all fluff from there babey~)
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 17
Kudos: 129





	Cowboys Don't Write Poetry

Kirk is pretty.  
McCoy can acknowledge that, in a subjective way. Bright, naturally tousled looking blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a crooked grin to light up a room.  
The kid could charm the pants off just about any man, woman, or persons in-between. Often at the same time.  
So Kirk was attractive, certainly, but had never particularly been McCoy's cup of tea.  
Er, coffee. That Iowa farm boy charm worked on many, or even most, but Jim was like the younger brother McCoy had never had and never knew he wanted. Plus, a major pain in the ass to boot. 

Spock however was....well, Spock was still a pain in the ass, but-  
Spock was something else.  
The kind of something else McCoy worked very hard not to let himself actually ruminate over; and often, to his chagrin, manifested itself in slightly derogatory, very obnoxious insults against Spock's person. McCoy may be relatively versed in psychology, but that little personal quirk still threw him for a loop.  
(He was pretty sure it just meant he was an emotional dumbass.)  
((And in way over his head.)) 

Spock had skin like white jade, smooth and pale, flushed from within by green hues.  
He should've simply looked alien, maybe even off-putting. But instead he struck McCoy as nearly ethereal, carved from marble like all those old roman gods.  
He was all lean frame and sinewy muscle, soft mouth and warm dark eyes.  
Hair as dark as any, making for an even starker contrast against his pale coloring, it only complimented the sculpted-ness of high cheekbones and a strong jawline.  
And those damned ears.  
Those ears that McCoy could never quit criticizing, like a broken record, as if he wouldn't wax awful, heartfelt poetry about their artful arch, curve, and point.  
Not too sharp, like a full Vulcan's, but certainly not rounded enough to be mistaken for human. They actually twitched sometimes, when Spock was keeping some emotion in check, and it was damn near the cutest thing Leonard had ever witnessed.  
He’d criticized, teased, poked, yelled at, and on one memorably near-fatal occasion, flicked, those blasted ears; and he absolutely longed to give them an entirely different kind of tongue lashing, dammit. 

They often made McCoy think back on some of his favorite books as a child, the ones his mother read to him, about funny small creatures with big feet; stocky folk with bushy beards and gruff attitudes; and most prominently, the otherworldly, graceful creatures, with pointed ears and impossibly long lives.  
He didn't like to consider which species he often identified with most, especially when in Spock's presence. 

All of these traitorously near worshipful thoughts had begun to spin around Leonard’s head like a hurricane while watching Spock's fingers dance across his lyre in the rec room. He couldn't seem to suffocate them like usual, and glared down at his bourbon glass in betrayal.  
He still swigged the last of it.  
"Cowboys shouldn't write poetry, Len." He mentally chastised himself.  
It really wasn't like him to go all gooey with his feelings like this, even with alcohol, but he suspected the fact that they’d become about as compressed as air in a blowhorn had something to do with it.  
No one could ever say that Leonard McCoy felt by halves. 

Pushing away his empty tumbler, McCoy decided he either needed to go sober up with a hypospray or confine his drunkenness to his own quarters, but either way, he couldn't stay where he was. Way too much risk that his alcohol loosened tongue would let out some kind of sappy drivel in poor Spock's direction, and that would be the end of their comfortable working relationship.  
Assuming near constant bickering, teasing, arguing and disagreement could be considered comfortable.  
It could, if you were Leonard McCoy, who’d grown up with three mouthy, southern sisters - that he loved dearly.  
He suspected Spock felt rather similarly, but some folk couldn’t keep up with a sharp tongue. 

McCoy stood up, straightened out his smock, and was looking to say goodbye to Scotty, wherever the rambunctious Scotsman had got to, when who should appear at his elbow other than the jade devil himself.  
Leonard nearly choked on his own spit, he was so startled. He hadn't even realized Spock had quit playing. _Shit, was he that drunk?_  
"Doctor." Spock greeted. McCoy bit his tongue to ensure any initial impulsive thoughts were good and quelled. Spock's eyebrow raised.  
"Ey, Spock." He managed.  
Spock's head inclined slightly.  
Belatedly, Leonard realized this was the polite moment to make some comment about Spock's musical performance. He cleared his throat,  
"You're playing was really nice tonight, Spock, on your lyre - I mean, it's nice every night, obviously. Well, every night you play, that is. Cause you don't play every night. Plus, it’s never actually night here, cause of space and all that. And I guess I'm not here every time that you play! But, when you do play, and I am here, it's really good, and uhh...yea!"  
_Amazing._

Spock blinked at him. Then blinked again.  
"Thank you, Leonard." He said at last. McCoy exhaled gustily and nodded his head, too mortified to dwell over Spock's use of his first name.  
He'd started using it occasionally ever since they'd escaped Altimid and that whole fiasco with Krall was over. There really was nothing like horrifying, near death experiences to put people on a first name basis. 

"Yep, ok, I'm just gonna-" Here, he made a forward slicing motion with his hand, "make my way on out of here. G'night, Mr. Spock." McCoy said as he gathered himself to make an escape.  
Spock's eyebrow finally dropped back into place. "I am intending to make my exit as well, I shall accompany you." McCoy's mouth twitched. Didn't the Vulcan recognize an awkward retreat when he saw one?  
Apparently not, because said Vulcan easily fell into step beside Leonard as he made his way out of the crowded rec space.  
McCoy rolled his eyes and accepted his lot in life. 

Just before they'd made it safely through the door, someone to his left suddenly laughed uproariously and sloshed tequila all down McCoy's shirt. "Shit!" _Ooooh Jesus, cold, cold, cold-!!_  
The person looked at him in drunken embarrassment, "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!!" It was an ensign, peering up at him with what appeared to be mounting horror as they realized it was two senior officers standing there, one wearing their cocktail.  
“I-I-uh,” the ensign hurriedly tried to dab at McCoy’s shirt with a fistful of napkins, serving only to press the freezing cold fabric more firmly against his skin. Leonard couldn’t help but jerk backwards with a curse, trying to pluck the damp cloth away from his chest. Spock seemed ready at any moment to wrestle the hapless ensign away from McCoy, holding a hand up to forestall any other attempts to help. 

With the front of his dripping smock pinched away from his skin, McCoy looked up and thought the poor sloshed kid looked near tears with total mortification while their table mates all looked on in sympathetic horror. Taking pity, and knowing that Spock’s flinty expressions could make any officer quake where they stood, McCoy purposefully laughed loud and good-naturedly.  
The whole group turned to look at him with mingled startlement, including Spock.  
“That’s alright kid, I’m none too steady myself right now.” He joked, and went ahead and tugged the drenched smock over his head, cause it really was cold, and swayed a little where he stood. “Good tequila though.” he grinned and sucked the liquor that coated one of his fingers clean off. Spock, next to him, made a noise of what McCoy assumed to be politely offended sensibilities. Thankfully the clumsy ensign and their whole table was now gazing at him with palpable relief.  
“But just remember, if any of you are so sloshed in the morning you need a little miracle pick me up to get goin’ again, it’ll be me hypoin’ you back together!” he let his grin stretch even wider, then threw in a wink for show, and as one, all the eyes at the table flashed with genuine alarm.  
Pity only went so far, McCoy thought with a chuckle, and keeping the yungins on their toes was a valued tradition.  
“Have a good night!” He called over his shoulder as he trotted away. 

Out in the hall, after he’d haltingly made it about halfway down one corridor, he heard the unmistakable sound of Spock’s lengthened stride, aiming to catch up with him. Spock never hustled or jogged, only strode with additional purpose, unless the situation heroically called for more.  
Leonard had time to wonder if Spock had given those officers a stern talking to before he’d caught up with him. The idea was somehow bemusing. 

“A most generous display, Doctor.” He said once he’d successfully re-matched McCoy’s pace. It might’ve been the bourbon, but McCoy thought Spock sounded a bit amused himself.  
“Ah, it was just an honest accident, nothin’ to get worked up over.” He said, most noble-y. Then he added a touch more sheepishly, “And I really did have my own fair share of drink. I’m not really in any state to throw stones.”  
Spock hummed in a way that might’ve sounded non-committal, if it weren’t Spock, but since it was, sounded more like the nonverbal version of “Clearly”.  
Luckily, McCoy was also in no state or mood to pick semantical fights. 

After some time simply walking the halls in companionable silence, Spock broke it by asking,  
“Leonard?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Where is it, precisely, that you are headed?”  
“Well,” Leonard stopped, looked around, and scratched idly at the tacky feeling of his alcohol flavored undershirt. “My quarters, I’d suppose?” It came out more questioningly than he’d’ve liked.  
Spock nodded thoughtfully. “I had thought so. Are you aware, Leonard, that your quarters are located on deck B?” He asked with his head cocked to the side. Like a cat.  
Or a rooster.  
McCoy frowned, “Yea, ‘course I know that. I only live there, why wouldn’t I know that?” He peered around them some more and felt an inkling of a sinking feeling. “And we’re-well we’re on the-“  
“C deck, heading away from the turbolifts.” Spock stated simply.  
“Ah..” Leonard wavered, figuratively and physically. “I knew that, ya know, I was jus’ takin’ the more scenic route.” Bourbon was evil, really.  
He started walking forward again.  
After a moment of hesitation, Spock fell back into step with him.  
“Scenic route?” He questioned politely.  
“Yea, the uh, when you go this way, you pass the-the cafeteria.”  
“Hmmm...and...do you find the cafeteria scenic, Leonard?”  
“Ya, I do, actually, ok.” Len cleared his throat and puffed up his chest, then cleared his throat again, working himself up into some improv. “All those crew members, sitting around together, sharing a meal, a conversation! Interacting like real people instead of just bustling around from one work station to the next. I think it’s _very_ scenic, Mr. Spock!” he made sure to punctuate his piece with a passionate stab of his finger. “Food brings people together, ya know.”  
Spock eyebrows rose almost like he was impressed.  
“That’s very commendable of you to say, Doctor. It shows a very virtuous affinity and appreciation for the well-being of your fellow crewman.” Leonard felt himself preen a little and lifted his chin.  
“Of course,” Spock continued, his mouth pursed, and Leonard already didn’t like that tone of voice, no sir, “at this time of gamma shift, when most of the body of the ship’s working force - exempting the absolute minimum staff necessary to keep the ship running efficiently - is retired in some fashion or other, there’s bound to be..”  
and here, with perfect Vulcan timing, they rounded the corner into the entryway of the mess hall,  
“..less of a scene to appreciate.” He finished wryly.  
In fact, there were exactly four people in the entire cafeteria. Two yeomen off in their own little sleepy looking group, and two singles, a security officer and a tech, probably both trying to eat their pre-sleep snacks in peace. 

Spock managed to radiant smugness at him without moving a single facial muscle. Leonard committed to moving several and scowled balefully. 

His unjust defeat unavoidable, he decided further commentary was unnecessary. McCoy huffed, and cut across the cafeteria to the other end so that he could actually get back on track to moving towards his quarters.  
Spock was the one who’d let his drunk ass lead in the first place, dammit.  
Spock was halted momentarily by a question from the lone tech, and McCoy didn’t feel like waiting to hear it.  
Upon exiting the mess and entering out into the adjacent hall though, McCoy was certain, absolutely _positive_ , that left was the correct way to go for the fastest route to his cabin.  
He was completely sure of himself.  
_Absolutely positive._

He waited out in the hall for Spock to catch up and lead the way. 

When Spock emerged and caught sight of his frumpy form, his mouth quirked in quickly subdued bemusement, but McCoy had no doubts that it’d been there. As Spock imperiously led them to the left, McCoy at least had the muted satisfaction of knowing he could’ve gotten there on his own.  
It was very muted.  
As they trekked through what was beginning to feel like endless hallways, his sense of exhaustion growing heavier and heavier upon him, and the skin of his belly itching something fierce with sticky, dried tequila, Leonard had the childishly pervasive thought of _“Are we theeeere yet?”._  
Spock, as though he could read his thoughts, but more than likely had cottoned on from his dragging feet and drooping shoulders, glanced at him sidelong and asked oh-so-innocently,  
“Would you like me to carry you the rest of the way, Leonard? You seem to be having issue keeping apace.”  
McCoy scowled fiercely, cause actually that sounded great, if not for the patronization – thanks, asshole - but also because that had to have been the hundredth time he’d heard his name on the man’s lips tonight, and it was slowly driving him insane.  
“No thank you, Mr. Spock,” He growled, “and I’d appreciate if you didn’t use my given name so freely all the _goddamned time.”_

It erupted as a nasty snarl, frothing from his mouth, compounded by drunkenness, exhaustion, and this ever grating, never gratified _want_ always swirling within him, angry, bitter, and cutting, and so much worse than he’d meant it too.  
He managed to regret the unplanned viciousness nearly the minute it left his tongue, because Spock’s shoulders went ramrod straight, without McCoy having even recognized how relaxed they were before. His tone was frigidly toneless when he spoke.  
“Of course, Doctor, I hadn’t realized how much discomfort my familiarity was causing you. I won’t deign to express such again.”  
McCoy artfully stumbled over his own feet, catching himself against the wall, nearly bowled over by the ice shards in Spock’s voice.  
He was drunk, but he definitely wasn’t drunk enough to miss the fact that he’d just choked his own foot down his throat in a big way. 

Spock’s step hadn’t faltered when McCoy’s had, so he’d pulled ahead, and now seemed to be lengthening his stride in order to do so further. Leonard pushed off from the wall and did his best to sprint after him.  
“Awh, Spock, wait! Please Spock, hold on just a second, that’s really not what I meant-” Spock’s form did not slow down, but rather seemed to gain speed.  
“Mr. Spock - dammit man, I’m tryin’ to apologize! Just wait a minute- hell with your tree stalk legs-” Leonard tried to pour on a little more speed, but felt himself careening sideways towards a wall. He hastily fought to correct it, but lost time in the maneuver.  
Spock was about to round a corner. Once he’d done that, he’d most certainly be able to lose himself in the ship, and Leonard would have to fight to pin him down the whole rest of the week, at least, slippery bastard that he could be when he wanted.  
“Spock, please!! I didn’t mean it at all like I said it, I honestly _like_ when you say my name-“  
Spock was at the bend, and Leonard felt his heart drop, but then Spock seemed to stall just at the corner and wait, and McCoy knew to recognize a chance when it was offered.  
He quickly stumbled his way up to where Spock stood, stiffly, with his shoulders squared and his hands behind his back. Most people, McCoy absently reflected, likely would have been standing there with their arms crossed and their shoulders hunched forward in the typical body language of someone who’d just been lashed out at for no good reason. But not Spock. McCoy wondered at how often people must misread the ridiculously stoic hobgoblin. 

“Spock,” he started breathlessly, “I’m so sorry. I’m old, and I’m grouchy, and sometimes my bark’s got more bite than I mean it to. I didn’t mean to snarl like that at all, and I even like it when we’re familiar and friendly with each other. I lashed out at you completely out of turn. I just get-I get flustered when you use my name, but that’s not an excuse. I’m damned sorry, Spock.” Leonard’s accent had gone thick as honey while he was apologizing, like it always did when he was overwhelmed.  
Spock’s ears twitched, ever so slightly, in the only emotive expressionism he couldn’t seem to control.  
“Flustered, Doctor? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by the use of that particular verbage.”  
“Ahh, you know, I just - flustered!! Like, like,” McCoy could practically feel his tongue trying to say something damning, but he was too fuzzed over with the need to fix things between him and Spock, and freaking bourbon, to successfully monitor everything coming out of his mouth.  
“Flustered!!! You’re very flustering! I get, I dunno, heated, or something, you—“ the word ‘heated’ rung in his ears as something inherently alarming, but couldn’t entirely place why it should be so. All the same, Spock seemed to be un-tensing by increments, so something must be working.  
“Most folks don’t ever use my first name, and you never used to, and I just, sometimes I can’t think straight when you do.” He finished a little uncertainly, and deeply wished that he could sober up and maybe stop doin’ everything wrong. 

Spock was looking at him intently, head tilted and eyes searching, and Leonard was too damn broken up to interpret the look. 

Suddenly, the tension seemed to shift, finally, and Spock’s strained and stiff posture relaxed by that indiscernible quantity that meant safety between them. 

“I understand, Leonard. In your inebriated state, you expressed sentiments that you would not have otherwise. It’s perfectly understandable.” Then he simply returned to his leisurely stroll towards the lift, as if nothing were ever wrong in the first place. 

Leonard stared at the wall where the Vulcan had been standing. Spock’s tone and body language were good, friendly. The returned usage of Len’s first name was good, (and bad) very good. But aspects of Spock’s wording left some things up in the air that really shouldn’t be.  
“Spock,” he started, catching up all over again. “Spock, I just wanna make sure we’re clear. I wasn’t just, ‘expressing things that I wouldn’t have otherwise’, I was expressing emotions that didn’t have anything to do with-with anything. I mean - Do ya hear what I’m sayin’ Spock?”  
Spock inclined his head. “I hear you, Leonard.”  
Well, there was his name again, at least.  
McCoy still felt like they weren’t exactly on the same page, or maybe in the same book, but he was too nervous to try and say anything else for fear of stepping in it again.  
So he kept his peace, and stole glances at Spock from the corner of his eye. But the Vulcan seemed largely tranquil, and a little ponderous. 

Leonard wondered if he could convince Spock to take a detour with him down to sickbay, where he could hypo himself sober, and then they could have this whole conversation over again. Except, he wasn’t actually too confident in his ability to do it better, regardless. 

They finally, _finally,_ made it to the lift, and McCoy wiggled a little in place, preparing for the final push before he could collapse in his bed.  
He suffered the somehow inbuilt awkwardness that was every lift ride featuring another life form with as much grace as he could muster, which wasn’t much, and of which involved more wiggling and bobbing on his feet.  
When it stopped on deck B he turned to say goodnight to Spock, who’s quarters were on deck A, only to be immediately brushed aside as Spock walked past him out of the lift anyway.  
“Uuhhh..” Well, alright, if Spock wanted to be a gentleman. _Sure._  
McCoy self-consciously slouched over to his own door, where Spock was already standing, and began his goodnight farewell over again.  
“Welp, Mister Spock, thanks again for the music tonight, and for walkin’ with me to my door, and sort of all around everywhere else too-” he unlocked his door, which opened with the characteristic *whoosh*.  
“So I guess I shall bid you adieu-“ aaaaand, Spock had already walked into his room. 

Leonard was done.  
He was tired, and sticky, and his throat was sore from chewing on his foot all night, and obviously Spock could just do what he wanted.  
With a huff, Leonard slumped into his cabin, kicked off his shoes, flung his sticky smock into the hamper, couldn’t figure out where Spock had got to, and just collapsed face first onto the bed.  
Vulcans were bad for his blood pressure. 

What could’ve been minutes or hours later, hell if he could tell anymore, he heard Spock speak up from the side of his bed.  
“Leonard.”  
_“Mphrat?”_  
“Leonard, sit up.”  
_“Schwhy??”_  
McCoy felt his socks being tugged off in quick succession, which, ya know, he hadn’t really been all that concerned about, but appreciated anyway.  
_“Aw, Fankxs.”_  
Spock hmm’d and nudged him with what felt like a knee, “Come Doctor, sit up, you must drink water.” Leonard clenched his eyes tight against the words ‘Come, Doctor’, and forced himself to sit up in the hopes of keeping the green devil from talking anymore.  
It wasn’t better.  
Spock was directly in front of him, holding a glass of water. He set it down on the nightstand, but before Leonard could reach for it, Spock yanked Len’s sticky undershirt off in one of the quickest, smoothest maneuvers he’d ever witnessed. He wasn’t even sure how his arms had gotten out of it.  
Blinking in the aftermath of his sudden unrehearsed strip show, Spock handed him a warm, damp wash cloth, then walked off and disappeared into his bathroom. McCoy, with nothing else to do with his hands, dubiously patted at his stomach.  
Spock returned a moment later after making some rustling noises in there, and came back with what appeared to be a hangover hypo.  
“For the morning.” He clarified. McCoy nodded dumbly, cause, well, he was a Doctor. He knew that.  
Spock set the hypo on the nightstand, picked up the glass, took the rapidly cooling wash cloth out of Leonard’s numb fingers and replaced it with the cup of water.  
He threw the cloth in one smooth throw into the hamper across the room, without moving out of Leonard’s space even a little.  
Leonard stared up at Spock in a stupor.  
Spock stared back at him meaningfully until he drank the water. 

McCoy’s thoughts were trying to race, but the pathways of his mind were too blockaded with other things for thoughts to flow the way they should, so all he managed was to make himself into a fuddled mess.  
Ok, a more fuddled mess.  
When the water was finished, Spock took the cup, refilled it, and set it by the spray on the side table. 

“Uh, thanks for-“ Len started, still mighty unsure about the situation. Spock pulled the bed covers back and nonverbally urged Leonard to adjust himself appropriately.  
“Thanks for taking care of, uh,” He tentatively did as he was supposed to and eased back on the bed.  
“I mean, I wasn’t _that drunk,_ but I appreciate-” Spock pulled the covers up to his midriff, pressing the ends down so it was properly tucked in, and McCoy was still painfully aware of his state of undress.  
“I appreciate the help..” he muttered weakly, feeling both like a child and like someone still in way over his head.  
“Lights.” Spock called, and all the lights in the cabin dimmed, the only bright light left flashing from the intercom. 

In the near complete darkness, with Spock’s hands pressed into the mattress on either side of him, Spock’s face hovering above his own, blurrily outlined in the dim light, and the oh-so faint puff of Spock’s breathe across his cheeks, Leonard felt very much as though he was having something like a panic attack.  
Except not quite a panic attack, because all those squirmy things in his belly weren’t inherently bad squirmy things, and his breathe had quickened of it’s own volition in something like anticipation, probably. Didn’t Spock have increased night vision? How well could he see Leonard’s expression right now?  
Watching as the flashing light framed those sculpted features of Spock’s face, the perfect cut of it shaped from the point of his ear to the cut of his jaw, Leonard felt all those over gooey thoughts starting to drown him again.  
The breathe on his face grew closer and warmer.  
McCoy was pretty sure he’d stopped breathing all together. 

“Leonard.”  
Spock said his name like it was something to be savored, and even if he couldn’t see the expression on Spock’s face, he could feel the warmth of it vibrate through his body.  
“Y-Yea, Spock?” he couldn’t manage more than a whisper.  
“Would you mind describing to me again,” and it _felt_ like Spock’s lips were angled just so, just barely tilted in opposition to his own, “in greater detail, what sort of _heated_ you feel when I use your given name?”  
When exactly had Spock wound up straddling him? Barely touching yet not touching, hands and knees pressed against his sides but separated everywhere that mattered. McCoy’s breath could only stutter out of him, immediately breaking up with moist heat as it came into contact with Spock’s face – Spock's _mouth._  
“Heated like-heated like-” Spock’s forehead pressed gently against his own. God, but he’d never stuttered like this in his life.  
He finally just clenched his eyes shut and tilted his mouth up that extra centimeter, rasped the words against Spock’s lips so there couldn’t be any mistaking it, any uncertainty. 

“Heated like I feel like I might implode every time you say it. Heated like I wouldn’t care if no one else ever used my name so long as you kept at it. _Heated,_ like I don’t think I ever even _liked_ my first name until you were the one who said it.”  
In for a penny. No one ever said Leonard McCoy felt by halves. 

The only thing he wanted in the whole world was to press forward and kiss that smug mouth, taste the corner that always tetched up when Spock couldn’t forcibly suppress all of what he felt, feel the rougher texture of his Vulcan tongue against his own human one.  
But too much heartbreak, too much betrayal, and too much damage done by a marriage turned volatile meant that Leonard really needed Spock to give that final push, to commit to really being in this with him.

Spock inhaled sharply, a small, almost gasp, and finally – _finally_ – eased himself down so that they were in full contact and Spock was sitting in his lap. His hand slid forward on the bed and found Leonard’s, pulling it up between them, opening his fist and sliding their fingers together in the most confusingly sensual moment of Len’s life.  
“You leave me ‘heated’ in this way as well, Leonard.” and cupped his own hand around McCoy’s, holding it against Spock’s cheek so that he could physically feel the flush there. With no small amount of awe, Len raised his other hand to cup both sides of Spock’s face, felt the heat of his cheeks, the cut of his jaw. Ran his thumbs along the outer arch of those ridiculous, wonderfully pointed ears, and enjoyed the resultant shudder as it ran through them both at every point of contact. 

Then Leonard finally, _finally,_ gave into his own gooey heart. 

And Spock met him there, with a whole heart’s worth of enthusiasm.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most rambly fuckin thing I've written in my life. They meander, they tease, there's crack, they're lost, there's anger, there's confusion, there's fluff!! Ridiculous. I just view this as my most bi-polar ship, and wanted to ramble them through the gamut. This is another thing where I wrote half of it forever ago and came back, then pretty much had to re-do all the first part cause it was Bad, while keeping with the same general plot. I think I like it though.
> 
> I sort of naturally shy away from delving into the properly mature bits whenever I'm writing for some reason, and cut it off while it's still clean, but if there was any sort of honest interest in a more liberally physical continuation, I probably wouldn't take much swaying


End file.
